


Somewhere a Clock Is Ticking

by anr



Category: The Pretender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-19
Updated: 2008-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was never meant to be the way it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere a Clock Is Ticking

The room is dimly lit, shadows smearing the walls and rumpled sheets. Across their legs, a cut of butter-yellow light from the solitary lamp.

"Need to go," she says. She's been watching the second-hand on his watch inch resolutely towards the hour for some time now, counting off his heartbeats with each quiet tick.

"Mmm." His breath stirs the fine hairs on her temple, his body warm and sleep-soft against hers. "Want to remember first..."

His voice trails off unevenly; neither of them move.

  


* * *

  


She forces him out of bed eventually, leaving him to strip away the bedding while she wipes down the door handles and bathroom vanity, the bureau and window sill. When they leave the room, she slips her hand into his and squeezes his fingers once before letting go again.

He sighs, her name a breath on his lips, and she doesn't look away when he asks.

  


* * *

  


They make it to Seattle before stopping again; a hotel this time, five stars and egyptian cotton sheets. When he orders room service, it's all candies and cookies and chocolate sauce sundaes, and she knows he's forgotten again but she doesn't say anything, just orders something more substantial for herself before the attendant can leave.

It's not his fault, she tells herself, that he couldn't do as he promised.

  


* * *

  


She wakes in the middle of the night to the feel of his hands spread across her collarbone, his weight pressing her down into the mattress and almost suffocating her.

"I won't go back," he hisses, lips pulled back into a snarl that she knows he doesn't remember is unnecessary. "I _won't_."

"Shh..." She can't move her arms, not smoothly, not without frightening him further, so she eases her legs apart slowly and lets his body settle against hers, her hips cradling his. "Shh..."

Long minutes and gradual touches until he's calm again, his body starting to tense against hers in a different way.

She closes her eyes.

  


* * *

  


In the morning he wakes her with the slow drag of his body moving down hers, his mouth hot on her belly and his fingers slipping inside her. When his tongue finds her clit, a keening sound begins deep in her throat.

He smiles when she comes, and the night seems very far away.

  


* * *

  


She smokes a cigarette outside the hotel, watching as he chats with a family sitting in the lobby.

There's a text message waiting on her cell; unasked for and unwanted. (They'll only get themselves killed trying to help her now.)

_Lyle's in New York._

Grimacing, she hits delete and flicks away her cigarette butt.

  


* * *

  


She lets them stay a second night, lets him push her up against the wall in their room, his hands framing her cheeks, her leg curled up around his hip, and his dick steadily sliding in and out of her until she can't think, can't breathe, can't care about how this was never meant to be the way it is.

  


* * *

  


When she comes out of the bathroom he's sitting on the edge of the bed, flicking through the room service menu. Head canted to the side as she towel-dries her hair, she watches him glance up and smile at her absently, glance down again, and she's about to suggest they try the seafood platter when suddenly he's double-taking, up and off the bed and across the room with his hands outstretched as if to ward her off.

She freezes.

"Parker! What -- how --"

She watches him look around the room, his mind busily processing everything as fast as it can -- her in a bathrobe, his and her clothes spilling out of a single duffel bag next to the chair, the still unmade bed, his lack of shoes and socks -- and it's like watching a clock, every tick of the second-hand marking off another detail, another fact, another truth, until every one of those sixty seconds comes together as a whole minute.

"Amnesia?" He's talking to himself, shaking his head as he tries to find the right diagnosis. "No, no, that can't be right, I still know who you are, who I am, _what_ I am -- drugs or PTSD maybe?" He looks at her. "How long?"

She starts drying her hair again. "Fifty-eight days." _Seven hours, forty-two minutes, twelve seconds. Thirteen. Fourteen --_

"Fifty-eight days... Minnesota... Lyle... no, before that, the bridge..."

She knows all this already, so she turns around and heads back into the bathroom.

  


* * *

  


She leans against the vanity and listens to him moving around the room. He's stopped talking to himself, but she knows what he's thinking so it's no surprise when he opens the bathroom door and studies her with an intensity she'd find disturbing if they weren't already sleeping together. Behind him, on the bed, his journal lies open and read on the sheets.

"Anterograde amnesia?"

She nods, and maybe it's the truth, maybe it's not. _He's_ the pretender, she reminds herself, and if he won't let her take him to a doctor, then self-diagnosis is all they have.

"And you're helping me run." His tone is so close to accusing that she almost laughs.

She smirks instead, briefly reclaiming a small part of herself as she lies, "I promised I'd bring back a pretender, Jarod, not a head-case."

He steps into the room and leans against the corner of the shower, mimicking her stance even as something akin to grief slips across his features. "I'm sor--"

She doesn't even have to stretch to reach him, to curl her fingers around his shoulders and pull his body to hers, and he comes willingly, his hands finding her hips and gripping tightly, lifting her up onto the edge of the vanity.

By the time they make it out of the bathroom, he's forgotten again.

  


* * *

  


She dreams about the bridge, her hand in his as he promises her freedom, an escape -- _yes_ , she damns herself, over and over again, _yes_ \-- and wakes to reality, his erection brushing the small of her back, and the knowledge that karma is a fucking bitch a shadow she can't run from, no matter how hard she makes them try.

She was never meant to be this good.

  


* * *

  


In the morning they strip the bed, and wipe down the furniture, because as good as housekeeping is, the Centre can be better and she's in too deep, has said yes too many times, to fuck things up now.

He touches her hand when they get into the elevator, his expression guarded and hopeful all at the same time. "You could come with me, you know," he says quietly. "You don't have to go back to the Centre. I can keep us away from them, keep us safe."

 _Yes_ , she thinks, _I know I can_. "I'm driving."

His surprise is as genuine now as it was that day on the bridge, the first time she'd agreed to go with him, so she holds onto his hand for a moment, squeezing his fingers, and then lets go again when they reach the lobby.

  


* * *

  


Six hours later, she types Sydney a text while he pays for their gas, knowing full well that if she sends it, everything will be ruined (at best, the Centre'll just kill them; at worst, she'll be forced to take his place).

_slipped through my fingers again._

Her thumb worries the smooth edges of her cell phone.

_next time i'll hold on tighter._

He reappears before she can hit send, and it's probably for the best. She erases the message.

  


* * *

  


Half-way to Topeka, as the clock on the dash flashes 0:59, he remembers the gun she keeps under the seat before he remembers _her_.

She never even sees this bridge coming. 

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/311387.html>


End file.
